


many-splendored thing

by girl0nfire



Category: The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: M/M, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tony thinks inappropriate thoughts, unrepentant superhusbands cuddly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony might be enamored with the way Steve smells.  Just a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	many-splendored thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Olor_et_Luna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olor_et_Luna/gifts).



> Written as gift for my lovely and fabulous friend and beta Olor_et_Luna. She's a total badass and puts up with my shit, and this is her Thank You.

As he usually does on Sunday mornings, Tony is imagining what his life would be like if he wasn’t a genius. 

Slipping out of bed, he grabs the first thing he can find – Steve’s tuxedo shirt from the night before – and stuffs his arms into it, pulling the collar closed and lingering, just for a moment, in the scent of Steve’s cologne. He trudges toward the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and wondering just _what_ poor, average, Plebian Tony Starks would get up to.

For example, if Tony Stark were a man of literature, perhaps he would devote his life to penning _epics_ about the way Steve Rogers smelled – horrific Grecian monstrosities that used gross romance-novel words like _enchanting_ and _rapturous_ , dripping with top-heavy metaphors comparing Steve to a rolling field of manly spring flowers, or something.

 _On second thought_ , Tony muses as he pours himself a cup of coffee, _the world is probably a better and more beautiful place because Tony Stark_ is not _a man of literature_.

Placing his mug underneath the espresso machine, Tony taps a series of buttons to brew a shot to top off his cup of Italian roast. He drums his fingers on the counter and silently gives thanks that the only thing that ever interested him about poetry was the math behind iambic pentameter and a long-held affinity for a particular girl from Nantucket. 

The espresso machine lets out a chime and Tony retrieves his mug, turning to exit the kitchen. Padding back toward the bedroom, he buries his nose in the small wisp of steam rising from his coffee and inhales the rich scent, managing to warm up his brain a bit in the process. Finally firing on all cylinders again, Tony returns to his original, pre-caffeinated train of thought: Steve. Or, more accurately, how _amazing_ he smells.

For a mostly tactile person, Tony has always had a special relationship with scents. He finds them to be excellent anchors for memories, a trick he’s used often to remember things when the great majority of his brain was busy working out some equation or another. And because of this, Tony has a lot of favorite scents – things that bring up old, good memories or bring him back to places and times that he’s treasured.

Like how the smell of engine grease will _always_ remind him of the three all-nighters it had taken to finish Dummy in time for his first final exam at MIT. He’d taken the bot apart and put him back together more times than he could count, but each time something else went wrong – the robot’s arm wouldn’t reach to a full 180 degrees, or his axles kept tangling together (how do you think the hapless robot had gotten his name?). Finally, it had taken one last, small tweak to a belt in the main motor, a smidge of grease, and one well-timed knock with the handle of screwdriver, and Dummy was up and running. If he closed his eyes, Tony could still remember the sting of sweat in his exhausted eyes and the stench of grease hanging on his clothes as he downed his long-cold coffee and carted Dummy off to his 7:15am Robotics class.

Or how the warm, honeyed bite of new leather _still_ took him all the way back to the driver’s seat of the first car he’d ever bought, a 1985 Alfa Romeo Spider. Hot-rod red ( _of course_ ) with black leather seats – he’d spent more miles in that car than any he’d owned since. Speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway, the endless blue of the ocean stretched out to his left, he’d gun the engine and take the curves like suggestions, slipping through her gears like fingers through sand and he’d never felt closer to flying.

Tony gives his head a shake, filing away his thoughts before taking a swig of his cooling coffee. He lifts a hand absently to the shirt’s collar again, pulling it a little more snugly around his shoulders.

He’s finished the coffee before he even reaches the bedroom. Shouldering the door open, Tony’s eyes travel from the foot of the bed upward over Steve’s still-sleeping form. 

_Jesus_. 

No man should be allowed to look that _ridiculously_ hot while simultaneously looking like a goddamned sleeping cherub. It’s just not _fair_ ; it’s as if Monet had a Precious Moments period, or if Playgirl did a special on the Men of the Sistine Chapel Ceiling.

Tony sighs. He is so _totally_ screwed.

Steve is doing his best impression of a starfish, face-down, limbs stretched in all directions like Tony’s California king mattress is a challenge. The long curve of his back is revealed, pale skin against dark sheets, because Tony must have upset the covers in his hurry to make coffee. 

_Whoops_.

Firmly suppressing his sudden desire to twitch back the sheet, _just for a peek_ , Tony sets his empty mug down on the bedside table. He spends a moment triangulating the best point of entry; one that would both afford him the most space, while having the least possibility of waking Steve. The man is decidedly less angelic when woken suddenly.

Tony wraps up his calculations and decides to wriggle his way underneath Steve’s right arm, lining his face up behind Steve’s head on the pillow so he can bury his nose in the man’s sleep-mussed thatch of blond hair. Tony curls against Steve, inhaling the rainy scent of Steve’s shampoo and sliding one arm around his waist. He closes his eyes and loses himself in Steve’s warm, solid presence, just for a second; just a second and then he’ll –

The next thing Tony knows, there’s a kiss being brushed against his forehead. He blinks once, twice, before gazing up to find Steve staring down at him, one eyebrow cocked.

“You’re wearing my shirt.” Steve slides his palm up Tony’s side, gathering the tail of the shirt in his fist and tugging Tony closer.

“Couldn’t exactly let the coffee machine see me naked, now could I?” Tony suppresses a yawn and reaches up to scrub one hand over his eyes as Steve chuckles into his hair. “Besides, it smells like you.”

Steve’s chuckle ends with a satisfied-sounding huff of breath across Tony’s forehead. Tony edges even closer, burying his face in Steve’s neck and inhaling. Here, pressed close, Tony can pick out each note that makes up Steve’s scent, each one calling up a memory so positively _Steve_ that it’s a wonder Tony could ever think of anything else.

There’s leather, of course, from his uniform, and the freshwater smell of his soap. But there’s also a faint hint of motor oil from when Steve spends afternoons hunched over the seat of his motorcycle, shooting teasing glances at Tony over his shoulder as he tightens bolts and polishes the wheels. There’s charcoal dust, too, from his evenings spent sketching as Tony banged around the workshop, and that crisp, outdoors-y smell Tony can’t quite name that Steve always seems to bring home after his morning runs through the park. And somehow, there is always a warm scent of oak that reminds Tony of the first time they had shared two fingers of his best scotch on the balcony of the Tower. The first time that they’d kissed.

All of these scents, all of these memories, have spun together in Tony’s mind, forming into the links of the chain that ties him to Steve. He squeezes his eyes shut, basking in Steve’s warmth, when he realizes exactly what Steve smells like.

It’s not _just_ leather, or motor oil, or any combination of memories and scents. It’s something else, something so completely _his_ and _theirs_ that he hasn’t ever let himself want before –

It’s _home_.

He must make a started noise, because Steve releases the tail of the shirt to put one finger underneath Tony’s chin, lifting brown eyes to meet blue. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, Steve… of course. I was just pondering how much persuasion it would take for the next line of Captain America comic books to be scratch-and-sniff.”

Steve flashes that Cheshire-cat grin, the slightly crooked one Tony’s come to recognize is only for him, and leans down to press a kiss to his lips. It’s lazy – the kind of kiss that’s perfect for a Sunday, sweet and just a little slow. But then, Steve’s laughing into Tony’s mouth, and Tony can’t help but laugh with him, breathless.

“Really, Tony? _Scratch and sniff_?” Steve rolls his eyes and settles back, resting Tony’s head on his shoulder and carding his fingers through his hair. 

“Hey, it’s not my fault they modeled Old Spice on your sweat.” Tony chuckles at his own joke, his laughter chased out of him by the answering rumble in Steve’s chest.

When they’ve finally caught their breath again, Steve’s fingers still in Tony’s hair as he speaks again.

“Tony?”

Tony _hmmms_ in response, currently expending _far_ too much energy stopping himself from purring outright like a fat, spoiled cat to form actual human words.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Cap.”

Tony still hasn’t _quite_ ruled out writing that epic.


End file.
